


A First Time for Everything

by outoftheashesrising, Rienne84



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Picard
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Knitwear, Marriage Proposal, Romulans can snuggle too, Some light angst, momulan and dadulan living their best lives, romulan murder parents, romulans attend Starfleet wedding, soft assassins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23104303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outoftheashesrising/pseuds/outoftheashesrising, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rienne84/pseuds/Rienne84
Summary: A collection of “firsts”- one shots featuring everyone’s favourite romulan murder parents.
Relationships: Laris/Zhaban (Star Trek)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	1. Adapting

The first time she’d said it, he was ecstatic. _A common Earth custom._ A phrase that he’d used countless times since arriving in France, a phrase that Laris had grown suspicious and tired of quite quickly, or so he’d thought. 

“I don’t care if it is, it doesn’t make any sense!” She’d exclaim, exasperated at his attempts to assimilate. Any activity or practice he’d suggest that wasn’t absolutely necessary to their continued survival was dismissed without discussion. Which is why her use of the phrase today, said with such nonchalance, was met with considerable surprise and enthusiasm. 

“You don’t have to make a spectacle out of it, I was merely suggesting that we try something different tonight.” 

He tried to reel in his obvious excitement as he slid his hands over her shoulders, and gently pressed his face to her neck. 

“Well if it is an _earth custom_ ” he laughed as he wrapped his arms around her, “then we must comply.” 

He didn’t think that putting radishes on pizza was a part of any custom on Earth, but he wasn’t about to mention that to Laris. 

———-

Over the next few weeks, Laris’ use of her new favourite phrase outnumbered Zhaban’s. At first he wondered where she was getting her information on Earth customs from, as he had never heard of any of the supposed “customs” that Laris claimed were common to the people of this strange new planet they called home. 

“It’s common amongst the coastal communities, I’ve been told” she drolled, eyes never leaving her PADD. 

“The people of coastal America do not attend galas on Friday evenings?” He thanked his Tal Shiar training for helping him suppress his smirk. He didn’t want to discourage her if her statement was innocent, albeit misguided. His instinct told him that this was unlikely to be the case, but nevertheless, he humoured her. 

  
  


“It’s bad luck.” He thought he saw the hint of a smile as she feigned interest in the PADD in front of her. 

“So you’re saying that in order to properly integrate into Earth culture, we need to follow the supposed customs of a region that we don’t currently live in.” 

“I’m so glad we’re on the same page.” Laris gently patted the seat beside her. “Now that we’ve got that settled, we can focus on another Earth ritual I’ve been eager to try.” 

The mischievousness in her voice made Zhaban vibrate in anticipation, while simultaneously fear for his life. 

He eagerly sits down beside her and she immediately leans into him, tucking her feet underneath his legs. 

“Laris, does this _Earth ritual_ involve you placing your freezing cold hands up the sleeve of my sweater?” 

She gives an affirmative hum, her head now buried in the crook of his neck. 

“This seems to be a common part of several _Earth Rituals”_ he says with a chuckle as he gently strokes his wife’s hair. “Very common.”

“Earth is a strange place. But sometimes they just get it right.” She tilts her face towards him, her eyes alight with the same daring glint he was first drawn to all those years ago. 

“Well I can’t argue with that.” He grabs the blanket behind him and places it over her gently in a well practiced motion, his other arm never leaving the side of her head. 

And they sat in silence, the two of them, reveling in each other’s company. _This,_ Zhaban thought to himself, _is by far the best common Earth custom._

  
  



	2. Cashmere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes going soft isn't as bad as one anticipates.

The first time Zhaban had the idea they’d been in France for a quarter of an Earth year. 

They’d arrived at the end of Spring at the height of the blooming season and the air had been heavy with the promise of new life and the heat of summer. Laris had sensed his unease and had tapped his hand with her index finger. To even the most ardent observer it would have appeared as absolutely nothing, but he knew. We’ll adjust, she had told him with no words and barely a touch. 

But that was four months ago and now October was unfolding in mornings of low, gray clouds, and winds through the vineyards, and something the Admiral had called frost. 

\------

“No, Zhaban. The answer is no.” 

“But you’re cold.”

“And I’ll just have to learn to live with it. Not unlike you.” The last part muttered under her breath.

He sighed, making it as audible as he could get away with without risking her wrath. Her real wrath. The variety which tended to leave her reaching for whatever manner of hidden weapon was nearest.

Defeated, but alive to fight another day, he set the package he’d been holding down on the end of their bed. It was of moderate size, square, and wrapped in a soft brown paper. 

He had walked into the village that morning, set with a list of small items to pick up at the weekly market. The path into town was unpaved and well worn and Zhaban had numbered how many steps it took him to reach the boundary of the Chateau and then how many more before making it into town. For him, it was almost an exercise in meditation, a skill no member (ex or not) of the Tal Shiar had not mastered. Of course, then it was a way to control your thoughts, to control any fear or weakness which might threaten to surface during combat. Now, though, it was a time for him to simply have his thoughts to himself. He didn’t actually need to go to the market, there were replicators and delivery services, after all, but Zhaban found an unexpected ritual in the journey and an unexpected comfort in the fact this market had been held weekly, in this very village square for millenia. It reminded him that some things can endure, even if many of the things he knew had not. 

\-------

Laris had accompanied him only once and said almost nothing aside from remarking that such a thing was ‘inefficient.’

“Laris, it’s not the worst idea to get to know our adopted culture.” He’d argued. 

She, in turn, had taken the woven basket he’d brought for carrying vegetables home from market from him, exasperated, “It remains to be seen how accommodating people other than the Admiral are of our being here. I doubt they wanted to be adopted. And by Romulans, no less.”

She’d turned to the right where the path diverged to the town center, his hand reaching out for where hers held the basket handle, stopping her. 

“What?” She’d practically snarled. 

Zhaban fought a smile from claiming his mouth. “Fine, then, I’ll revise. Would it be the worst idea to make this reconnaissance?” 

Huffing, she abruptly let go of the basket, throwing up empty hands in feigned resignation and watching him stumble backwards, having been thrown off balance.

“I’ll allow it. But only to keep you in practice.” Then, eyeing the basket as if to make a point, “You’re getting soft, Zhaban.”

And so he had let her think she had won even though both of them knew neither had. The Tal Shiar didn’t believe in compromises and neither Laris nor Zhaban saw any reason to start now.

She tolerated the sunny afternoon, standing a few steps behind Zhaban, arms always crossed, eyes cutting up at him and whoever he happened to be interacting with. He’d picked up a few bars of artisanal soap which made Laris sneeze, far too many of something apparently called squash, and a pair of boot socks for the autumn from a wool dealer.

His wife had complained about them the entire way home. 

Leave it to humans to manage to create and profit from a material that is infuriatingly warm and infuriatingly scratchy, she’d ranted. 

Then there was an apparent problem with the color. She’d never seen such an offensive color of, what did they call it here? Gray?

Ten minutes later he’d falsely believed she’d finally run out of grievances against the socks only to have, as he usually did with his wife, miscalculated.

“It’s utterly barbaric!”

He sighed. “What is?”

“They raise those poor animals for their fur, and then after all the effort growing their coats, someone comes along and shears it all off!”

“Humanely, Laris. They do it humanely. And the sheep need to be sheared. It helps them.”

“It’s barbaric.” 

And, having settled that, neither the socks nor the market were mentioned again.

But while they were never spoken of again, they were not forgotten about.

A few evenings later Zhaban had caught her rubbing one of the socks in between her thumb and forefinger in thought. When she’d almost immediately caught wind of his presence she’d rolled her eyes and thrown it into the hamper with what could only be described as drama.

He’d pursed his lips, but said nothing.

The day after that, they’d awoken to frost on the grapes. It wasn’t a particularly cold day, and hardly even chilly by the time the sun came up, but Romulus had been warmer than Earth and Laris had come from a particularly hot region. 

Zhaban knew this. And he knew she was cold, as he himself was. But still, he said nothing, when she kept shivering and staring at his boots (and what was underneath). 

“I don’t know how everyone just goes about their merry way in this cold.” She’d grumbled over lunch.

Picard had chuckled in confusion. “We wear warmer clothing.” He’d pulled at his pullover. “Sweaters, we call them.”

She’d glared at him, but said nothing.

\-----

And so they’d gone round and round like that for half of October. Her being cold, his and Picard’s gentle reminders that “Laris, there are other options aside from wearing five replicated layers of Romulan-style tunics.” 

“It’s too soft.” She kept saying. “You’ve already gone too soft.” She’d prod him.

\-----

So, when he had walked into the village that morning, the morning that would set in motion events which would change everything, set with a list of small items to pick up, Zhaban knew what he had to do.

\-----

“No, Zhaban. The answer is no.” 

“But you’re cold.”

“And I’ll just have to learn to live with it. Not unlike you.” The last part muttered under her breath.

He sighed, making it as audible as he could get away with without risking her wrath. Her real wrath. The variety which tended to leave her reaching for whatever manner of hidden weapon was nearest.

Defeated, but alive to fight another day, he set the package he’d been holding down on the end of their bed. It was of moderate size, square, and wrapped in a soft brown paper. 

He gently touched a hand to the paper before glancing her way and slowly walking out of their room. 

Heading to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, he smiled to himself, pleased that he’d gaged the right time to strike at her crumbling defenses. 

Opening a cabinet above the sink, he selected the blend of herbal tea they’d taken to drinking before bed. He smirked as he began to open the bag, the paper and contents crinkling and rustling. At about a half a second delay, he heard a similar paper noise coming from down the hall.

Success.

Every time he’d pause in tea preparation, the ‘other’ noises would abruptly stop and so he made a bit of a game out of it, starting and stopping much more than was called for. 

He placed the loose tea in the pot, slowly pouring the steaming water over it, and folded his arms, silently waiting for it to steep the perfect amount. 

When it had, he carefully placed the pot and two teacups onto a rustic wooden tray, and padded softly back down the hall, careful not to wake the Admiral. 

“I think tomorrow I’d like to begin working on mending the fence on the eastern border.” He said entering and setting the tray down on their little coffee table between two oversized chairs. 

“Hmm, perhaps.” He heard her say more quiet than usual. His wife always had an opinion. And ‘perhaps’ was not an opinion.

Looking across the room to their bed, he saw she had already climbed in and tucked herself underneath the heavy weight duvet, it pulled all the way up to her nose.

He laughed, despite himself, and purposefully didn’t make eye contact with either her or the brown paper packaging on the floor. Instead, he slipped off his shoes and slid into bed with her.

He reached for her hand, feeling a soft, knit fabric brush his fingers.

Mission a success.

She cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze, but took his hand all the same.

“It’s not wool.” He told her. “Not really.”

She still didn’t look at him.

“There’s a small shop on the other side of the village. It’s called cashmere. The family has been making sweaters with it for hundreds of years.”

He shrugged. “It’s supposed to be more comfortable than regular wool.”

“It’s very - soft.” She relented.

“The sweater, yes.” 

He turned her face to meet his and kissed her forehead. 

“But you? Never.”


	3. Babysitting

Laris had been in her fair share of high stress situations. One might say that she even thrived in stressful environments, her best work occurring when the stakes were impossibly high. A bomb in a highly unstable fusion reactor that needs defusing immediately? Just a typical Tuesday. Need someone to go on a one person reconnaissance mission on a highly volatile and heavily surveilled planet? Laris could do it blindfolded. No one knew this better than Zhaban. Which is why he was only slightly ashamed by how much delight he was experiencing at the site before him. 

Laris looked like she’d been fighting with a Klingon and barely made it out alive. Her hair, which she normally wore down, was fashioned haphazardly into a bun, with flyaway ringlets sticking out every which way. Her cardigan was long since discarded on the floor, and there was an unidentifiable substance on the shoulder of the sweater she was wearing underneath, a soft grey piece Zhaban had gifted her last year. There were strange coloured markings on both of her hands, which Zhaban struggled to get a closer look at. It almost looked like paint, but he couldn’t be sure. 

“Just take it '' Laris uttered, no longer hiding the exasperation in her voice. “ _ Please”  _ she added, thrusting the small creature, arms waving and legs dangling, towards her amused husband.  
  


“Kestra.  _ She  _ has a name.” Zhaban tried to suppress his chuckle as he accepted the squirming toddler into his arms, her small hands immediately finding the ridges on his forehead. 

“Well hello there, little one” he cooed. “Should we give Auntie Laris a break?” Kestra giggled as Zhaban prepared to make a speedy exit, partially to give his wife some time to relax, but more so to escape her inevitable reaction to his comment. 

“Careful, I’ve killed men for less”, she uttered pointedly as she retrieved her cardigan from the floor. 

“You said you wouldn’t mention  _ K-I-L-L-I-N-G  _ in front of the baby” Zhaban admonished in a hushed tone, shifting Kestra so that she was propped up against his shoulder, his hands covering her ears. 

“She’s not a baby, she’s two years old. By that age I was learning to disarm assailants. And this one can’t even spell!”

Zhaban thanked the gods when Laris decided not to continue listing the supposed shortcomings of the small human (and one quarter betazoid) currently sucking her thumb in his arms. 

He was well aware that Romulans and Humans had different opinions on child rearing. Romulans indoctrinated their young early, with a strong focus on self-sufficiency and obedience. Human children were taught obedience to some degree, Zhaban had observed, but what shocked him was the allowance for self-discovery, for individuality. Human children were taught to  _ march to the beat of their own drum _ , a phrase that perplexed both Laris and Zhaban when Deanna had mentioned it in passing while dropping Kestra off earlier in the day. 

“We nurture our children so that they can develop their own unique personality” Deanna had explained to a riveted Zhaban and a disinterested Laris. “We try not to force them into anything, let them discover things on their own.”

“That is wholly impractical” Laris had immediately dismissed the counsellor’s attempts to explain further. 

Zhaban didn’t think it was impractical at all. In fact, after spending the morning with Kestra, he was starting to see the merit of the so-called  _ inferior _ parenting styles of humans (and half-humans). Seeing Kestra, so full of energy, enthusiasm, and many,  _ many,  _ questions, reminded him of his own childhood. Zhaban was curious by nature, always getting into trouble, as his mother would often remind him of. He wondered how different things would be now if that curiosity had been fostered. 

“It doesn’t matter if you can’t spell yet” Zhaban chose to focus on the restless toddler in his arms instead of his wife, knowing Laris’ patience was already worn thin.   


“You’re very smart” the high pitch of his voice surprised even Zhaban himself, but it seemed to delight Kestra. “Yes you’re the smartest girl in the whole world, aren’t you!” He gently tapped the smiling girl’s nose, sending her into a fit of laughter. “Now let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into!”

——

“You’re coddling her.”

Zhaban had just entered the kitchen after ensuring Kestra was soundly napping in the living room. 

“How am I  _ coddling  _ her?” He was growing tired of Laris’ reactions towards their little houseguest. 

“Entertaining her every whim, letting her run wild in a house full of priceless things” she started as she set water to boil.

He’s sure she would have continued listing things if he hadn’t cut her off. “I am  _ playing  _ with her. And I’m keeping her away from the valuables. We’re sticking to the safer areas, like the wine cellar.” 

Laris passed by Zhaban to get to the counter, unphased by his last remark. “Will and Deanna don’t understand the damage they’re doing. Those kids will never learn how to defend themselves.”

_ You can take the agent out of the Tal Shiar _ , Zhaban thought to himself. 

“I think”, Zhaban started carefully, the idea still not fully formed in his head, “they’re focusing on creating an environment where they don’t have to.” He stopped to gauge Laris’ reaction to his words before continuing. 

“You and I, we were raised to be on constant alert. To always anticipate an attack. We weren’t allowed to be children.” Zhaban paused, the gravitas of his own realization hitting him hard. 

“Parents are supposed to protect their children until they are ready to protect themselves.”

He was surprised when he was met with silence, he had expected a quick retort, another supposed reason why the Admiral’s friends were supposedly ruining their children's lives. He looked towards his wife, now leaning on the counter, her head bowed.

“Laris?” Zhaban knew that deep down, his wife cared deeply for the child. Her frustrations were out of concern for Kestra’s safety and well-being. 

“Did you ever think we’d end up like this?” Laris laughed dryly, looking up at Zhaban. 

She continued, “If you told me ten years ago that we’d end up on earth, married, debating inter-species parenting styles, I’d think you’d gone mad.” 

Zhaban chuckled as he walked over to his wife and drew her close to him. Laris instinctively rested her head on his arm. 

“We’re not so different from Kestra, you know.”

Zhaban ran his hand gently over Laris’ shoulder, waiting for her to continue. 

“New to this world, still trying to figure out how it all works. I just wish I had her stamina.” Laris placed her hand over Zhaban’s. 

Zhaban laughed, “I think the mid-day naps might be the key we’re missing.” 

As if on cue, a cacophony rang out from the living room, followed by the equally terrifying sound of a gleeful toddler. 

Zhaban froze, eyeing Laris carefully. 

“Go,” Laris sighed, as she rested her head in her hand. “Check on the destroyer of worlds.” 

———

“Thank you so much for today, you can’t believe how helpful this was to Will and I!” Deanna picked up the drowsy child, a small stuffed bear loosely in her grasp. 

“She wasn’t too much trouble I hope.” 

Zhaban had been in his fair share of high stress situations. In many of those situations, it was his unwavering belief and trust in the abilities of the woman he now called his wife that saw him through to the other side. He had never doubted her, and she had never let him down. And never since meeting the brunette whirlwind currently standing beside him, had he been more scared of this impossibly long streak being broken. 

_ Please, please don’t fuck this up.  _ He was very grateful that the woman standing in front of him was an empath and not a telepath. 

“She was an absolute sweetheart.” Laris cooed as she bent down to retrieve the bear that had slipped from the now sleeping child’s hand. “You let us know when you need us next, we’d love to have her over again soon.” 

Zhaban stood in stunned silence as Laris saw Deanna and her daughter out. 

“Wipe that look off your face” Laris quipped as she shut the door and headed towards the kitchen. 

“You willingly invited  _ the destroyer of worlds  _ back into our home. Do I have to worry about your sanity?”   


Zhaban followed his wife into the kitchen, watching as she began to pour herself a substantially large amount of wine. 

“Maybe, just maybe” Laris paused to take a sip of wine, “human and betazoid methods of child rearing aren’t all  _ completely  _ backwards.” 

Zhaban smiled as he poured himself a much smaller glass of wine. 

“But you’re explaining the broken statue to the Admiral.” 

Zhaban chuckled as he savoured his wine. Through thick and thin, he knew he could always rely on the love of his life.  _ And tonight was no exception.  _

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation. A dress. And a new mythology.

“A wedding?” Laris arched an eyebrow at both Zhaban and the Admiral, the latter holding a delicate invitation that had been delivered that afternoon.

“Yes,” Picard answered her, “One of the children from the Enterprise D, actually. She served as a bit of a junior officer once, helped me in a troubling situation, and we remained somewhat close after that.”

Zhaban looked at the Admiral in surprise. They were still getting to know their employer, and friend - and charge to be honest, and he never disappointed them with the secrets he kept locked away. 

“Yes, well, she’s in Starfleet now and-”

“Starfleet?” Laris interrupted, a shadow crossing her face. “Would that really be wise given the current political climate?”

He appreciated their concern. He truly did, however unnecessary he considered it. 

“Laris, it will be fine,” He sighed, “I am only telling you because I wanted to invite the two of you to attend with me.”

“As your security detail?” Zhaban asked.

“As my friends.”

“As your security, then.” Laris said, nodding firmly signaling the end of that discussion.

“And what does eh, security, wear to an Earth wedding, sir?” 

Picard handed the invitation to Laris, and placed a hand on Zhaban’s shoulder, smiling, “What guests and friends of guests wear.”

“Admiral, that is, I suppose we, I-”

“Well, Sir, you’ve done it. The woman has conspired against every single planet in the Federation, multiple times, successfully I might add, and this is what finally intimidates her.”  
“I- please don’t tell me.” Picard said, holding both hands up, palms out in a stop gesture. 

“By all means, go ahead and tell him, Zhaban. You can tell everyone at this wedding for all I care, because I will not be in attendance.” She dropped the invitation onto the counter and stormed out into the garden.

Zhaban sighed, Picard nodding at him in understanding. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he followed after her.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Laris,” He began.

“Don’t.” She said, pointing the gardening shears she was holding at him in warning. 

“You, ugh, are going to murder that peony bush.”

She looked up at him in further warning.

“Or me, it seems.” He shrugged.

“Did you need something or are you just trying to pester me?”

Zhaban took a deep breath, running a hand over his forehead in frustration.

“Laris, what is this about?”

“It’s about you popping off about the extent of our actions against the Federation, whilst living in it, Zhaban.”

“But the Admiral knows about all of that. He knows who we were.”

Her swift movements in and out of the flowers stopped abruptly. “And who are we now?”

She placed both hands on the table in front of her, leaning forward, shaking her head and rolling her eyes in exasperation.

Zhaban knew. He’d gone through this when they’d first arrived. 

Knowing she would talk about it if and when she wanted, he opted to pick up an extra set of shears, working the blade into the shrub where she’d left off.

“You’re Laris. And I’m Zhaban.” 

Trying to suppress a laugh, she smirked. “Idiot would be more fitting after getting us into this Romulans attending a Federation wedding mess. It sounds like the plot of a bad holonovel.”

He laughed. 

“And what on earth am I going to wear?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A fortnight later, Laris finished fastening the clasps of her dress as Zhaban and the Admiral waited in the foyer for her. 

She turned to face the mirror in the corner of their bedroom.

Utterly frivolous, she thought, but he did well, she had to admit.

Zhaban had taken care of their attire for the evening. He always took over tasks she found tedious, or, in this case overwhelming. He’d worked with a designer and seamstress in the village who came highly recommended. 

For himself he’d chosen a fairly standard suit, dark gray, with a vest and tie in a dusty olive green which complimented the deep almost midnight indigo of her dress. The fabric, called silk, was somehow more than just blue. At certain angles it looked lilac. She’d never worn such a thing before. Something so unnecessary and without purpose aside from ornamentation. However, for a thing that shimmered like the night sky when she moved, it was surprisingly comfortable, she was sorry to admit.

But he had done well. It vaguely reminded her of something from their planet’s mythology. The way it wrapped itself tightly around her torso before flowing downwards to the floor in patterns reminiscent of water. It was light, but substantial. An extra bit of fabric extended from the waist to drape over one shoulder only, a gold brooch fastening it securely in place. The waist was highlighted by gold embroidery and braiding, fitted, but not tight enough she couldn’t easily access one of the three disruptors strapped to her legs underneath. She smiled, knowing Zhaban had purposely chosen a dress which allowed for concealed weaponry. He was always thoughtful that way. With the details.

She’d left her hair down, her curls obscuring her lineage, at least at first glance. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of who she was really, it was just, well, they’d had more trouble with being accepted than even they had anticipated and perhaps every little bit helped. 

It didn’t matter anyway, she reasoned quickly, Zhaban liked her hair the way she wore it now that they were no longer active in the Tal Shiar. It was longer and wilder and he had told her approximately 54 times it suited her, especially when she let it just be.

She paused at that as she had the computer turn out the lights. Since when had she become someone who wore their hair because someone liked it that way?

Best not to dwell, she thought, walking through the hallway to where the Admiral and Zhaban waited.

They both stared when she came into view, making her immediately think something was wrong.

“What?” She startled.

“My Dear, you look beautiful.” Picard told her, smiling. “You almost look like images I’ve seen of the Goddess Rotre.”

“You know of the Romulan Goddess of War?” Laris asked, surprised, by both his knowledge and the fact he was, indeed correct. The dress, the color, the way she wore her hair now-

Zhaban had never made a non-deliberate decision in his life. He was always thoughtful that way, with the details. And The Devil, she'd learned on Earth, was in the details. 

“I know a lot of things.” Picard said, smiling knowingly at her and then at Zhaban. “Was she not also a goddess of the home? She was married, was she not?”

Zhaban cleared his throat, looking at the door, opening it for his employer. “After you sir.”

The Admiral exited the Chateau, followed by his Romulan bodyguards, and tonight, friends. Laris caught Zhaban’s arm before he could get too far down the path. “What are you playing at?” She demanded. 

“What?”

“Cheeky bastard you are sometimes, Zhaban.” She said through gritted teeth. “You had this dress designed.”

“And?”

“And you studied our mythology before you were recruited.”

“Ah, yes, so I did.” He smirked, leaning towards her. “You’ve always reminded me of Rotre.” He winked.

“I don’t see it.” She lied.

“Are you or are you not underneath all that stunningly beautiful silk, prepared for war?” 

“We’re going to be late, Zhaban.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him towards the waiting Admiral.

“And you are more beautiful than I imagined.” He quipped, not needing to see her face in the dark to know she was smiling.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zhaban held an outstretched hand towards the woman sitting next to him. The ceremony had ended surprisingly quickly and now they were at the reception for dinner and dancing. She arched an eyebrow at his palm and then her eyes met his. 

“Would you dance with me?” 

She untucked her hair from behind her left ear, a habit she’d only picked up since starting anew here on Earth. Zhaban was well trained to spot tells, and this was hers. She was nervous. Her eyes moved away from his towards her own, lying in her lap. He knew she was hoping he wouldn’t needle her about it. Of course, he would never. Not about this. 

“Zhaban-”

“Laris-”

“It’s best we don’t draw undue attention to ourselves.” 

He smiled, nodding appreciatively at her hair, and the dress she wore, and leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I think it’s too late for that.”

Drawing back, he saw something he’d never seen. Laris, his Laris, had pink in her face. He’d always assumed blushing was incompatible with Romulan physiology, but, of course, they’d paled considerably living on this planet. 

“What?” She practically snapped at his smirk.

“You’re blushing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Zhaban. I don’t- Romulans don’t-”

“Dance with me.” He pushed again.

“You don’t even know how.”

“As opposed to you, I presume.”

“If it wasn’t part of Tal Shiar training, then I likely don’t possess the skill.”

“Laris, you’re the one telling me I have to work harder to fit in here. To make a show of solidarity with Earth culture. To assuage any fears of our being too unrelatable.”

She sighed. 

And then huffed.  
Standing, she took his outstretched hand with all the skill of a trained assassin entering into a standoff (which she was and which, of course,this was), moving closer to him in one swift, flawless motion.

Gods, how he loved her.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Laris was wholly unsurprised that Zhaban had learned to dance. Of course he had. He had, truthfully, always gone beyond duty when preparing for missions. 

And beyond when caring for me, She thought to herself carelessly. 

His hand sat squarely on the small of her back, holding her close with perfect precision, spinning them in circles around the dance floor, in and out of the other guests as if they were in a minefield. 

Perhaps they were.

Perhaps they always had been.

In the Tal Shiar, everything is strategy. Every move is a play on the battlefield. Every act is an act of war. 

Even in love.

Gods, how she loved him. 

And how it scared her. 

Looking over his shoulder to the other guests, she was stopped by something she detected in his eyes. Something about his breathing was off. The vein in his neck was pulsating much too quickly for the amount of physical exertion he was outputting. It was concerning.

“Zhaban, are you-”

He swallowed, a trickle of sweat sliding down his forehead. 

Clearing his throat, he pulled her closer, unaware of the worry he was inciting within her.

“Laris, there’s something I’ve been wanting to discuss with you for some time.”

She wrangled back trying to look him in the eyes, but he held her close.

“Marry me.” He whispered quickly before he lost his nerve, his breath tickling her ear.

“How-how long have you been wanting to discuss this with me?” Was all she could manage in response. And then, “Why?”

She willed her feet to continue moving to the music as her stomach dropped. He didn’t know what he was saying. What he was asking of her. Where had this come from? They’d never discussed this before. Obviously they hadn’t, there was nothing to discuss. Tal Shiar didn’t marry. Tal Shiar didn’t technically have relationships either, she supposed, and especially not with their partners. 

Did they have a relationship? Yes, they decidedly did, she knew, although they’d never discussed that either. Zhaban had simply always been there. And for the better part of her life it had been the two of them, Laris and Zhaban. Partners. 

He had been her training partner during the recruitment phase. Then they had been partnered together officially. Later he’d stuck by her side when they decided to go against orders and flee to Earth as refugees. They’d circled the wagons during that first year, enduring a culture shock neither had been prepared for, exacerbated by multiple xenophobic attacks, one of which landed Zhaban in critical care. Laris wasn’t sure exactly when things had changed, but she suspected it had been the night she almost lost him.

Her eyes fixated on his throat. The scar had been fully healed, leaving the wound indetectable, but she still saw it sometimes in her mind’s eye, could still see all the blood, sometimes, in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep. 

After he’d come home from the hospital, she’d moved him into her room, and with not a word on the matter, started sleeping in the bed next to him, her disruptor on the nightstand. 

A week after that they’d become different types of partners. 

And truth be told, that had been fine. For years. 

“Zhaban, it isn’t done. Marriage hasn’t been a common practice on Romulus for hundreds of years and it’s forbidden for us, you know that.”

His fingers crinkled into the silk she wore. A decidedly human fabric for a decidedly superfluous garment meant for a decidedly frivolous event. Nothing like the Laris he’d first met, she knew. She had changed here and it scared her if she were honest. She liked this, this formal gown, Picard had called it. She liked the way Zhaban looked at her in it. 

“But we aren’t Tal Shiar anymore. Not really. And our Homeworld, it-” His voice cracked at the memory. 

“Yes.” She agreed, squeezing his hand in hers. 

“Marry me.” He urged again.

“I-” Laris didn’t know what to say. She, the best agent the Tal Shiar had ever recruited, couldn’t accurately identify her objections. They were slipping away from her and being replaced with a feeling in her stomach she could admittedly live without. Why was she saying no again? 

“I can’t lose more of myself, Zhaban. I can’t just keep slipping away. You know I’ve already given up too much, our home, our families,” She shook her head, “Look at me, wearing this, this thing, dancing at an Earth wedding, as if our home hasn’t been destroyed. As if I don’t remember where I come from. Who I am.”

Ah, there it was. 

“Laris, we are allowed to find happiness here without forgetting our past.”

She chuffed, “Where on this planet did you get an idea like that?”

“From you.”

“I never said such a-”

“You told me that our first week here.” He sighed with mixed emotions at the memory. “ I had tried a croissant. I liked it, but all I could think about was how I’d never visit my Uncle’s bakery, or him, ever again. And you told me I was allowed to find happiness here and now. That it didn’t mean I was betraying where we came from.”

Laris did remember. She’d meant it too, but-

“Well that was you and it was about bread and this is entirely different! You’re asking me to tie myself to you in what is little more than an antiquated slave agreement.”

“Ah, yes, the rules are always different for you, aren’t they.” He snapped quietly. 

The couple nearest them glared at their apparent argument. They certainly weren’t blending in. She sighed, pushing the air out in a controlled manner. Zhaban nodded in understanding.

“I think you’re being unfair to the idea of marriage.” He started up again. “If that were truly what it was, do you think the Admiral would ever, in a millennia, convince Beverly to marry him?”

“I think they didn’t fully consider the implications.” She argued, despite her defenses rapidly crumbling. 

“You think that Doctor Beverly Crusher, didn’t fully consider the implications?” 

She shrugged. “It’s possible she did. The people here, they tend towards sentimentality and-”

“I’d say it’s very possible she did. She told me-”

“You spoke to her about it?”

He nodded. “Before she left for her six month assignment in the Delta Quadrant, yes.”

“You’ve been thinking about this for that long?”

Laris suspected he’d been thinking about it for much, much longer. Laris suspected that she had as well.

“I have and she told me she and the Admiral view their marriage as a contract between individuals, to be partners. That the contract is a symbol of their commitment to support each other, a way to ensure the partnership continues, even in times of trouble or in moments where one partner may wish to terminate the agreement.”

This was less romantic than Laris had expected. He had her attention. Logic had always been one of her weaknesses. 

“Well we’ve already got one of those, I suppose.”

“The Tal Shiar induction ceremony, yes.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Yes we did or yes you will consider entering into a new agreement with me which is recognized on this planet and in this culture?” He spoke the words in rapid-fire succession, knowing she couldn’t resist the call to engage.

She glared at him. This man would be the death of her.

“Perhaps you make a point worth consideration.” 

“Perhaps you know there is good sense in marriage in terms of cultural assimilation. And perhaps, you know, that no matter how much you come to love silk and cashmere or the way the people of this planet smile at each other in passing, that I would never, ever let you lose yourself. Just as I know you wouldn’t let it happen to me.”

She swallowed.

“We’re partners, Laris. Damn good ones. Why not continue our arrangement on a more, permanent basis?” He dared a small smile.

She shrugged.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not scared, Zhaban.”

But she was. The way he dismantled her defenses terrified her sometimes, even if he had been doing it since their first week in training camp. Although, that’s also what she loved about him. He was the only being in the universe that could so delicately disarmor her. 

He was the only being in the universe she could really be herself with. But who was she now? She'd been Tal Shiar for so long, a warrior for so long, she felt with every turn of the seasons on this planet, with every sweater, with every kiss, she lost a bit of herself, no matter how happy those things made her.

Tal Shiar.  
Former Tal Shiar.  
Too Romulan for Earth.  
Too Human to ever go back to what was left of the Romulan Free State.  
A woman who hadn’t meant to fall in love.

None of that mattered with him. With Zhaban, she was just Laris. 

Maybe with Zhaban, she could also be a wife. 

A thing she had actually wanted as a girl, so many years ago, before life had happened to her.

She knew he understood her silent contemplation as resignation. That he knew her resignation always meant acceptance. That Laris didn’t accept anything she didn’t truly want.

“You know, Laris, it’s ok to surrender,” He rolled his eyes halfway, “Once in your entire life.”

“Oh you think this is surrender, do you? Last time I checked we’ve been going round each other in battle for the past twenty years. What makes you think my agreeing to this ridiculousness isn’t a calculated power play?”

"So you're agreeing then?"

"I'm making a calculated power play," She reiterated.

“Leading to your inevitable victory, no doubt.”

“Naturally.”

She felt the feeling in her stomach return, this time letting it stay, as he untangled their fingers, lifting her left hand to his mouth, and in a distastefully human-like display of emotion, kissed her palm, and then her finger. The finger where a ring would soon be. 

“Well, then,” He said, neither of them having noticed the music had stopped. That it was just the two of them left on the dance floor. That people were staring. Not at two out of place Romulans. But a man and a woman, wholly incapable of hiding how deeply they were in love with each other. 

Laris bit into her cheek, reigning in the smile that would give her away to the world. “Well, then-?” She teased him, eyes mischievous. 

“Surrender has never sounded so appealing.” 

“Good. Just as long as we’re clear you’re the one who will be surrendering.”

“I shall gladly accept defeat at the hands of my Wife.”

Laris noticed the music had now changed and some couples were leaving the dance floor. She looped an arm around his waist, guiding him off the floor. Feigning a large, human-like smile, she laughed, moving just close enough so he could hear what came next.

“Call me Wife again and see what happens, Husband,” She threatened.

Continuing, she led him towards the entrance of the banquet hall, out into the foyer, and into the gardens beyond.

Zhaban stopped her, firmly planting his feet beside a rose bush in bloom. He liked the idea of living to actually see his wedding day, so he didn’t say it aloud, but the roses in full bloom reminded him of her. 

“Wife.” He whispered resolutely, this time in their native language. The language reserved only for intimacy. He caressed her arm in an act of worship. 

And then Laris realized. The dress. Rotre. The uncanny resemblance. The Goddess of both War and Home. 

Perhaps the two didn’t stand at odds after all. 

If Rotre could do it, why couldn't she? 

Feeling lighter than she perhaps ever had and with nary a care in the world, she reached upwards and kissed the man in front of her.

Her partner in battle.

And for always.


	5. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laris is lost literally, Zhaban is lost figuratively.

For an organization that dealt in stealth and deception, the life of an agent was surprisingly routine.  _ A Tal Shiar agent is regimented and disciplined.  _ He could still hear his mother’s voice in his ear. It was one of the things that Zhaban had always hated about the Tal Shiar. He revelled in the ability to live by his own schedule now on Earth, free from arbitrary rules and regulations. 

Laris, however, found it difficult to live without the strict routines she’d grown accustomed to, and even found comfort in. Since coming to Earth, to Zhaban’s delight, Laris had slowly discovered the merit of being able to live on one’s own terms, to live moment to moment, when the situation allowed it. She grew to love the surprises Zhaban would orchestrate, a homemade meal at the end of a long work day, a weekend trip to the seaside, things that she would have once dismissed as frivolous and dangerous. Still, there were certain aspects of her harsh training that Laris had not, and likely would never, abandon. When it came to her duties at The Admiral’s estate, for instance, Laris took pride in following a tight, self-imposed schedule. She had followed the same routine every day since working for Picard, like clockwork. So when Laris failed to return home after 45 minutes, the amount of time she allotted for daily walks with Number One, Zhaban immediately knew something was wrong. 

“Perhaps she changed her route? Or ran into a neighbor?” Picard began as he tried in vain to make Zhaban focus on his words instead of the phaser the ex-agent had liberated from beneath the coffee table. 

“We don’t have time to discuss possibilities,” Zhaban began, securing the phaser to his hip, “I have to find her.” And with that, the former elite assassin ran out the door. 

“Zhaban!” The Admiral knew there was nothing he could say to stop Zhaban from leaving, but he could at least try and ensure that his trusty groundsman did not inadvertently put himself in danger. 

Picard hastily sent a message to Beverly advising her of the situation before setting out after Zhaban, desperately hoping, however foolishly, that Laris had spontaneously decided to stop and pick some flowers on her way home. He didn’t dare think of the alternative. 

———————-

Zhaban surveyed the area with practiced precision. As much as he resented his time in the Tal Shiar, having a unique skillset to rely on during difficult times was definitely an advantage. 

But no amount of training could prevent the fear slowly creeping into his mind, threatening to take over at any second. 

“Laris?” He called out for her for what felt like the thousandth time. 

There was no response. 

A rustling of leaves made Zhaban pause, hand on his phaser. The rustling continued as Number One appeared in the thick vegetation and began diligently running towards the Admiral, now only a few paces behind Zhaban. 

Zhaban didn’t waste any time, veering off the path and carefully stepping over the thick brush Number One had seemed to effortlessly leap over, ignoring the Admiral calling his name, encouraging him to wait. 

“Laris!” His calls became louder, more desperate. Laris never walked through the woods, and made a point from dissuading The Admiral and Zhaban from going there as well, the large trees overhead interfering with visibility, and the expansive brush underfoot making stealth nearly impossible. He didn’t know why, then, Number One had come running from the very area Laris consciously avoided, but he knew he needed to find out soon. It had been over an hour since she was expected home. 

He ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him to keep his voice down, to keep in the shadows. He didn’t care who may be waiting for him in the expansive forest, he was ready to fight any assailant lurking in the shadows if they stood between him and the woman he could quite accurately describe as the love of his life. 

He turned suddenly, noticing a small object glinting in the rays of midafternoon sun that managed to peek through the tightly woven canopy overhead.  _ Laris’s com badge. _

“Laris!” Zhaban ran down the small but steep slope, barely keeping his balance as he yelled out for Picard, hoping that the older man would hear him.

There amongst the narcissi lay Laris, unmoving.

_ No, no, no no. This is not how you die,  _ Zhaban thought to himself as he came to his knees beside the supine woman and began shaking at her shoulder. “Laris you have to wake up.”

She had soil on her face and leaves in her hair, and her sweater was torn. Her right leg lay at an unnatural angle, and Zhaban noticed a small trickle of blood at her hairline. Before Zhaban could conduct a further investigation of her injuries, the woman before him began to stir. 

Her face began to tense, from confusion, frustration or pain, Zhaban wasn’t sure. Zhaban continued to gently press on Laris’s shoulder, encouraging her to open her eyes. 

Laris’s eyes remained closed, but she let out a long sigh. 

“Stop shaking me, you idiot.”

—————

“Laris you’re bleeding,” Zhaban stated as gently as he could while trying to wipe at Laris’s forehead, a task made exponentially more difficult by the woman in question swiping his hands away.

“No I’m not.” She stated matter-of-factly, like a defiant child, crossing her arms and turning away from him.

Zhaban would have found it endearing, if the pair hadn’t repeated this exchange four times already. 

After Beverly had assured them that it was safe to move her, Zhaban had quickly brought Laris home, where the doctor conducted a more thorough assessment. 

A broken tibia, a mild concussion, and several superficial abrasions. Beverly was surprised that her injuries weren’t more severe, after seeing how far Laris had fallen after chasing a distracted Number One through the brush. 

“Laris, let me help you.” Zhaban was finding it difficult to hide the exasperation in his voice. He loved this woman, but sometimes it was easier to reason with Number One. 

“I don’t need your help, I can do it myself” she huffed as she leaned forward to grab the dermal regenerator. 

Before he could try and stop her, remind her that she had a head injury that he needed to tend to before she made any sudden movements, Laris stopped suddenly, the regenerator forgotten on the floor as she pressed one hand to her forehead, the other stabilizing herself on the couch. 

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m fine. Just dizzy.” She removed her hand from her forehead, waving him off. Her other hand continued to grip the arm of the couch, her knuckles white. 

It took all his strength not to reach out to her, grab her and cradle her in his arms, not letting go until she could promise him that she’d never scare him like that again. He’d witnessed countless lives being lost, many by his own hand. He’d seen the destruction of worlds, including his own. And still, he came to bed every night unburdened, knowing that in an ever changing universe, his one constant would remain beside him. And today, he almost lost that. He knew without a doubt that it will be Laris’s unconscious, battered body that he sees when he closes his eyes tonight. 

“Stop it, don’t do that!” Laris’ stern but pleading tone interrupted Zhaban from his thoughts and he looked at her, confused. 

Laris gestured for him to come towards her, and it wasn’t until she began wiping at his eyes with her thumb that he realized that he was crying. 

Zhaban clasped his hands around hers, careful not to pull her forward or jostle her as he gently brought his head down to rest on their joined hands. 

“It’s embarrassing.” Her voice was soft, tentative, like she wasn’t sure if she was saying it out loud or just thinking it. 

He was ready to challenge her, remind her that some people would feel flattered to see that their well-being could cause their partner such distress, but Zhaban stopped when he took in Laris’ face, not admonishing like he expected, but withdrawn, ashamed. It took him longer than it should have to realise she wasn’t talking about him. 

“I used to be able to pursue a target in zero visibility while dodging enemy fire like it was nothing. And now I can’t even chase after a  _ fvadt  _ dog without falling. I’ve lost my touch.” 

She rested her body against the couch, dropping her hands from his, avoiding his gaze. 

“Laris, you threw a croissant at me from across the room without looking yesterday, and it still managed to hit me in the forehead. You haven’t lost your touch.” He didn’t touch her, respecting her space, but leaned in towards the couch, meeting her eyes.

“The Enterprise could lock onto your forehead from space, it’s an easy target.” She turned away from him, but he could hear the smile in her voice. 

“I don’t care if you couldn’t tell the difference between a disruptor and a bread knife, as long as you’re here with me.” He moved to sit beside her on the couch, and she leaned in to him, slowly moving her head to rest on his shoulder. 

“I married a romantic eejit” she chuckled, as Zhaban picked up the discarded cloth and began gently wiping at her brow, only slightly surprised when she remained still, closing her eyes as he continued to tend to her wound. 

“And don’t you ever forget it.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
